Birthday Gift's are a Curse
by half0.5seed
Summary: A failed writer living with his parents gets a Death Note replica from his girlfriend for his birthday. The eerily accurate detail combined with his superstitious urges cause him to wonder if the note is a fake or real. Does he have the nerve to find out?


Death Note: Fan(non)Fiction

by Gregory Alexander Pratt

I turned twenty-eight today. I tried to keep it a secret but I guess I forgot to turn the birthday notification option on my Facebook page off. On second thought, I swear I turned it off, or at least I tried to. Maybe it didn't work right, or maybe I didn't do it right. Neither would surprise me.

Against my better wishes my family planned a birthday party for me. We were a big family by todays standards. Five brothers and sisters which made seven if you count my parents. Needless to say we didn't get many invites to holiday parties, or any kind of parties for that matter. "Too many mouths to feed" they would say. So, whenever there was cause to celebrate we gathered at my parents house. This was no cause to celebrate.

We assembled as we had done many times before over the years around the oval shaped mahogany table that looked and was treated as an heirloom. A cake is set before me, twenty-eight candles were impaled in it, glowing red hot. The cakes get brighter every year. I do my best impression of a content and happy member of the tribe for morales sake as I put out each of the candles with my hand. The encore of the "Happy Birthday Song" was the notes I'd play on the candles flames between my saliva dipped fingers. The singeing sound that's made as I snuff out the fire is discomfiting to the family. Serves them right.

Oh, there's gifts, I thought to myself as the second oldest sister Krishna sets a medium sized cardboard box in front of me.

"This is from all of us" she says proudly.

I remove the contents: A gallon of water, canned foods("We know you're vegan" Krishna adds), deodorant, a battery powered analogue radio, a flashlight, a first-aid kit, a whistle(of which I was forced to demonstrate the proper use of), a dust mask, moist towelettes(which have pork in them), garbage bags, a wrench("It was your Grandfathers" my Pop declares regally), a manual can opener, a map of San Bernardino County, a cell phone that flips(I didn't know they still sold these). "It's under your Father and I's monthly plan, so only in emergencies" My Mother instructs.

And then there's Sara, the object of my affection, and the source of my self-consciousness. My girlfriend of six years, and the self proclaimed best gift giver of all time. She sets custom decorated gift bags color coordinated with the fall season in front of me. She's under the impression that she knows exactly what I want for my birthday every year. I don't have the heart to tell her that unless a published novel fifty weeks on the New York Times best sellers list written by yours truly is inside of one of these fluffy bags, It'll make it the sixth year I've had to manufacture "the smile." Not the smirk of curiosity as I reach into the bag, but the beaming grin of disinterest one gives a small child when they are forced to listen to the preferred method one should use when throwing dirt clogs.

Ah, love. It would sound more like lie if the word was spelled honestly. Out of these bags I remove the contents: A mini statue of Deadpool, a new playstation controller(the buttons on my old one were getting worn), a black t-shirt exactly like the one I was currently wearing, a book on dreams by Sigmund Freud, and a Death Note replica.

"I got it at a geeky swap meet because it's a notebook and I know you're always writing in them, but this one is pretty unique and based on those cartoons you like. Anyways, I got a good deal on it." Sara says.

The "cartoons" she was referring to were "anime", she knew there was a difference, and knew what that difference was. "Thank you" I say like a fraternity pledge being flogged for initiation. "Everyone, thank you, really." I wish someone had gotten me underwear.

In my bedroom I take off my black t-shirt, smelling it before tossing it into the corner. My mother always thought I was weird for doing that, but would scream bloody murder when she'd catch me smelling my shoes after taking them off. "Why do you smell your shoes? You know they smell funky" she'd protest. I liked to think they smelled like the past. I put on the birthday deodorant, and the fresh black t-shirt. I break the seal on the room temperature water gallon and sip it straight from the container. I slide into my desk chair to stack my Deadpool statue in it's new home on my desk with the rest of the statues, and set the Death Note in front of me.

The packaging was walking a fine line between bargain bin knockoff and a downtown art fair knockoff. I don't know if I thought it was a bootleg because it had asian writing on it, or because the flimsy plastic wrapping was trying too hard to appear legit. It came with a cd dropped lazily in the bag unprotected, which all but confirmed my suspicions. Definitely a knockoff.

I open the plastic admiring the cardboard cover. The packaging was nice on the inside. Slightly textured with a holographic effect in the title's font. I imagine the bootleggers grandmother taught him the value of plastic wrapping valuable things. I suppose what's good for expensive furniture would also be good for cheap memorabilia. The book itself eerily resembled the western christian bible. The cover was a kind of crocodile skinned texture. I'm sure this touch of detail was meant to be ironic shock value orchestrated by the books creator. A death notebook stylized in the fashion of a piece of literature known throughout the ages as the book of life, but I couldn't for the life of me understand why the bootleggers would go through the trouble of making such a detailed knock off. God bless Asia.

As I flipped through the pages which were saturated with blank ink, feeling wet to the touch, I noticed they were adorned with familiar artwork from the tv show and a rundown of the rules of the Death Note. There were a lot of rules. Many of which I didn't recall from the manga or the anime. The first actual notebook page had Japanese characters written on it. A name perhaps- added again I presumed for dramatic effect. Someone had went to a lot of trouble making this thing look and feel like the real deal. I finally arrived at the first blank page, my writers instincts propelled me into my standard routine I'd perform with all of my fresh notebooks. I write- _Property of..._ and stop dead in my tracks. Rule #1 of the Death Note rushes to my frontal lobe, _The human whose name is written in this note shall die_. On second thought, I'd better not write my own name in it, just in case.

I've always been aware of the various superstitions man has heaped upon himself over the duration of his existence, I guess in a lot of ways we all are, whether we realize it or not. Out of principle I decided not to write my name in the Death Note. In fact, I would write nothing else in it at all. I put the note back into the cardboard shell and slipped it back into the plastic jacket. I took out the cd and surveyed it closely. I never believed my mom when she would say "Secular music is devil music." But in this case I would leave nothing to chance. Don't want to tempt fate. I run my house key across the bottom of the disc, violently making x after x, before tossing it in the waste basket. I climb into bed.

As I lie awake unable to sleep, I continued to ponder the credulity of mans primitive nature. I never believed stepping on a crack would break your mothers back. I never thought opening an umbrella indoors risked anything but looking like a complete jackass, and the Bloody Mary game was, I felt, an adolescent ploy to get someone's unassuming daughter into a dark bathroom. In what seems like a few moments, morning rears its head. Time to prepare for the day.

I brush my teeth still preoccupied with the evenings thoughts. I've never stepped on a crack, I've never opened an umbrella indoors, and I never made it to the third bloody Mary. One of the angelic sirens would always stop me before I could stop myself.

I make my morning commute to the local cafe, a routine I practiced often to clear my head, and get a little writing done without the inquisition of my employment status by my superiors. Even as I leave the noise of my parents house behind, I can't shake the thoughts that've been piercing my mind since I was given the Death Note as a gift. What if all of your childhood angst could be stamped out with a single, well placed step on a crack in the sidewalk? I love my mother, don't get me wrong, but what if I didn't? Sadly it isn't uncommon for a person to hate their creator. What if I actually owned an umbrella(we live in Southern California) and opened it indoors? Is there luck worse than mine out there in the cosmos? What if I had the balls to utter those two words a third time? Could I end up on the wrong end of an ungodly embrace?

I sit in the cafe and remove a comic book from my bag, the Death Note slips out of it. I don't remember putting it there. Nevertheless I hurry it back into my bag like an unconcealed weapon.

Some said it was all bullshit, some said it was real, some got suspended from school for being in the wrong bathroom under questionable circumstances. And me, I was the look out. Always the look out. Still, I knew that even now years later, much older(if not much more mature), that I myself didn't have the courage to test the note myself. I would need a subject aware or unaware, didn't matter to me. But this time I'd confirm or debunk my superstitions myself. No more hearsay. All that was left was to find a test subject.


End file.
